


up for the little white lies

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-26
Updated: 2010-10-26
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:43:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: In which Eames is almost happy, Arthur is a bit of an idiot, and everybody loves Joni Mitchell.





	

It starts out innocently enough—well, as innocently as Eames does anything when Arthur's around. They're in a dingy motel room, laying low after a job gone south, sharing a room because somehow, being together, bickering like children, is infinitely preferable to splitting up.

And that's good, that's normal, that's what Eames has come to expect over the years they've known each other—when the job is good, five stars and room service; when it's not, well, at least there's usually a magic fingers box. Eames drops his bags, twists until his back pops, and throws himself face first into one of the double beds, groaning.

"You're a pig," Arthur tells him, setting his own bag on the provided desk.

"A knackered pig, darling. Oof. Arthur, I love pillows. Don't you love pillows?"

"I have work to do, Eames. And so do you, although I'm sure your eccentric artist persona can get away with another missed deadline."

Eames lifts his head from the pillow to scowl at Arthur. "That's above and beyond, you know. Being an eccentric reclusive artist might have been my calling."

"Reclusive? You forget how well I know you, Eames, you couldn't be a recluse if you tried. You're like Tinkerbell, for Christ's sake—you need applause to live."

Eames laughs, loud and strong. "What a clever darling you are. Too clever for your own good by half, you know, and it's terrifying. Like a robot. Only you breathe."

"Are you at all aware of how ridiculous you sound? Do you ever form entire thoughts, or do they just percolate like popcorn?"

"You're in rather a good mood for someone who isn't getting paid," Eames remarks.

Arthur shrugs and opens his computer. "It's one job, and the fuckup was neither of our faults. I don't see why I should be in a bad mood."

It is only later that Eames realizes Arthur is lying.

Six hours later, precisely, when Eames peeks out from under the pillows again, bleary-eyed, and Arthur is still working at the desk. "Darling," he starts, looking at the clock. "Darling, it's almost four. Do try to sleep, at least a little."

"Tried," Arthur grits out, and it's then that Eames realizes—oh, oh, he had been pretending. Pretending for Eames' sake, so that he, at least, might catch a few winks. "Laid down for twenty minutes," Arthur continues. "Didn't take."

This time, Eames knows Arthur's lying. There's the tell, right there, at the corner of Arthur's mouth. "You're a terrible liar," Eames says, and it's quieter than he intended it to be. "To me, anyway," he clarifies. "Didn't even take your shoes off, did you?"

Arthur turns around, so the full force of his glare can be focused on Eames. "I despise you," he says, calmly.

Eames grins, watching the corner of Arthur's mouth twitch involuntarily. "Liar," he says, and this is easy, this is simple, this is the hint of a smile on Arthur's mouth and the computer closing. Arthur stands. "Don't forget your shoes, this time," Eames drawls lazily, and rolls over on his back as Arthur gets in the other double bed and finally cuts out the light.

And if either of them were normal, that would be it, just like that.

But they're not normal, and Eames has been a little in love with Arthur for as long as he can remember and he's sure Arthur knows it, so he waits for Arthur's breathing to even out because he won't be able to sleep again, if Arthur doesn't.

And he waits.

And he waits.

And he waits.

"You're not sleeping, Arthur."

Arthur makes an oddly endearing harrumphing sound. "And no surprise, with you lying there waiting for it to happen. It's creepy, Eames. Roll over, and quit it."

"Not before you get to sleep, Arthur. I've had four hours already. It's your turn. I'll count sheep for you. I'll rub your back. I'll sing, if it'll help. And not Edith Piaf, either."

Arthur is silent for a long moment. "My mother sang, when I was a child," he finally says. "James Taylor, Joni Mitchell, the Carpenters. Something new every night."

Eames can hear it in his voice, hear the wall falling down around them, the true Arthur emerging. This is Arthur vulnerable, Arthur unwilling, Arthur of flesh and blood, and Eames' heart constricts in his chest.

"I love Joni Mitchell," Eames says quietly, and that's a little vulnerability too, if he's honest. "I think she's brilliant."

That's how it starts—Eames singing 'Both Sides Now,' hoarse and scratchy, until Arthur's breathing does go slack and rhythmic and Eames listens to it, a different kind of music for he himself to drift off to. And Eames remembers wondering, as he listens to Arthur's soft in and out, if it's always going to be like this.

He wonders, too, if that would be so bad.

It's not. They go on the way they do, working together when it suits them, sharing a room at the end. It's comfortable, mostly, comfortable and bantering, as easy as anything ever is between them. Eames thinks after a while that he might even have approached happy, and that surprises him more than anything else. And through it all, Arthur doesn't sleep until he sings.

Eames is no musician, plays no instruments, has had no training. But even his hoarse, low-pitched warbling has an audience in Arthur, whether it's 'Both Sides Now' or 'You Can Close Your Eyes' or, on one particularly memorable occasion, 'My Funny Valentine.' Eames sings, and sings, and sings, every song he heard as a child and then some, and it's a surprise to himself as well as Arthur that he never resorts to Lady Gaga or Madonna even on the nights most in need of comic relief.

Then again, it is Arthur. Eames knows his limits, and he would rather sing until his voice gives out than be kicked out for a lark. Which he does, job after job, until Arthur stops bothering to pretend he doesn't enjoy it. They lie back in their separate beds, Arthur turns out the light, Eames sings until the snoring starts. It is who they are. It is what they do. And if this is the closest he will ever get to Arthur—so be it. It is enough.

For a while, at least.

He's still this kind of content even six months later, on a job gone so well it made Eames remember why he loves the dreaming so much. And they're in a Ritz-Carlton and the suite is enormous and it's so good Eames hasn't even had to coax Arthur into calling it a night. And Arthur is sliding into bed, all long limbs and slender hips, and he looks up at Eames with a half-smirk and says, "You're not going to be a pussy forever, right?"

Eames would like to object, would like to say, "Fuck you, Arthur, you're the one who needs a lullaby after a job," but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is "What."

"I'm just saying," Arthur says, shrugging. "You keep booking double rooms, but I think you've done enough singing in the dark for me to let you make a move. I'm not blind, Eames, and I'm not stupid."

It is regrettably, Eames thinks, the worst possible follow up to a line like that, ever.

"Stupid? No, Arthur, you're not stupid. Tactless, however?" Eames presses his mouth into a thin, flat line. "You sound like you're offering a business transaction, Arthur, paying for services rendered. And you might think you're being charitable, darling, you really might, but all I'm hearing is self-righteous prick. I don't live like this because I want to fuck you, Arthur. I do it because I actually give a shit about you—although at this particular moment, I'd be hard-pressed to tell you why."

Arthur's rising already, crossing to his side of the room, but Eames throws up his hands. "Don't, mate, all right? I'm done. Give me a shout for the next job, yeah?" He collects his bags, pulls out a shirt and trousers, and he's gone.

Arthur doesn't call.

Of course he doesn't; Arthur never called before, always waited for Eames to come to him. And Eames did it, too, followed Arthur around, smitten by his competence and his suits and the little twitch of his tell, half in love with the idea of Arthur, entirely in love with the man.

Now he's in love and on his own, and it smarts like a bitch.

He takes up smoking, again.

Gambling, too.

And, now that he can afford it, buys bottle after bottle of very expensive Scotch.

Because, really—if he's not going to work with Arthur, he'll probably never work again. It doesn't occur to him to think that might not be rational; it just is, like blue sky and green grass and Eames' Joni Mitchell records smashed on the floor.

He should probably pick up the pieces, but they look so comfortable there. And even drunk and barefoot, he watches where he steps. It's not like anyone else is in to visit.

Dimly, he recognizes what he's experiencing as grief, however diluted it is. Grief for Arthur, for himself, for missed opportunities and unsung lullabies and 'My Funny Valentine' on repeat in the living room at the loneliest hours of night, all the more ridiculous because they were never together to begin with and yet missing Arthur still hurts so much it's hard to _breathe_. Eames doesn't overanalyze it, just drinks more Scotch and lights up another fag, ad nauseum, sure that soon enough, it'll pass.

It doesn't. The days blur together. Before he knows it, it's fucking February, the most miserable month of the year, and Arthur is standing in his doorway with bags under his eyes and his trousers creased in the wrong place.

Eames feels a nauseating lurch of déjà vu as he says "What."

"You were right," Arthur says.

"I was an ass," Arthur says.

"I can't sleep without you," Arthur says, and Eames feels the goddamn world dropping away from under his feet, feels the universe shifting as he steps aside and lets Arthur in.

Or maybe the universe starts shifting when Arthur turns and crowds Eames back against the door, body to body, nose to nose. Maybe it starts shifting when Arthur says "Don't mistake _this_ for business," and presses his mouth to Eames' own.

And oh, god, it's better than Eames thought it would be, better than he thought it could be, better because it's fierce, and hungry, and it hurts. Arthur is ruthless, ruthless as he is in the dream, biting at Eames' lips, crowding his shoulders into the door, working his knee between Eames' legs—and Eames is powerless to resist, even if he wanted to.

Arthur pulls his mouth away, drags it along Eames' jaw, finding the place that makes Eames groan and latching on. He's talking all the while, pressing "wanted this" and "fucked up" and "hated myself" into Eames' skin. Eames is drowning in it, his fingers scrabbling for purchase in Arthur's jacket, tearing it away with no regard for the fabric and no remorse, either, chanting "off, off," like a prayer until something tears and Arthur growls and Eames lets out this utterly inhuman sound and pushes Arthur back, wrangling him towards the bedroom, minding the Joni shards on the floor.

"Fucking asshole," he's saying. "Missed you," he's saying. "Thought I'd die," he's saying and it's not what he wants to come out but it's true enough for now, for this moment, for undoing Arthur's tie and slipping out of his own shirt and pushing Arthur onto the bed before Arthur flips him, strips him, and sucks Eames' cock into his mouth.

Eames sees white, for a moment, and that can't be good.

Arthur hollows his cheeks.

"Fuck," Eames groans, and knees Arthur in the head. "Come here, asshole." Arthur obliges, crawling up Eames' body agonizingly slowly until Eames is grasping at his trousers and fumbling with the zip and "Jesus Christ, Arthur, a little fucking help here?" and Arthur just smiles, lazy and smug, and Eames sticks his tongue between Arthur's teeth, and that shuts him up.

It's nothing like Eames envisioned. Arthur is creative and devious and filthy, bending Eames' knees nearly to his chin before licking him open until Eames is squirming and sweating with it, rolling on a condom and pressing in so slowly he bites his lip in concentration. Eames is adrift, swimming in Arthur, drowning in the heat and the wanting, out of his mind with the sensations even before Arthur starts moving. He might be begging—he can't tell. All he knows is that Arthur is smirking and Eames is bucking and there it is, the clench and release, and Eames is shouting and Arthur's face goes blissfully stoic and it's over, Arthur flopping into Eames' arms without any of the pragmatic efficiency Eames expected, and it almost makes him laugh.

"Stay," he whispers into Arthur's neck, getting up for warm cloth and cool water, and when they're clean and comfortable Eames lets Arthur throw his knee over Eames' leg and settle in, sleeping schedule be damned.

He needs the sleep anyway, Eames thinks, and opens his mouth, and sings for the first time in months.

"You're my funny valentine, sweet, comic valentine, you make me smile with my heart."

Arthur is asleep before he's finished even the first verse.

Eames smiles into Arthur's temple and lets the sound of even breathing lull him, too, into sleep.


End file.
